


Cleansed

by Gemmiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 9.18, Destiel - Freeform, Handprint Kink, M/M, Shower Sex, meta fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-26
Updated: 2014-03-26
Packaged: 2018-01-17 02:50:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1371220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gemmiel/pseuds/Gemmiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean can't scrub away the filth of the Mark of Cain. Castiel is there to help. Spoilers for 9.18 and beyond.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cleansed

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the long preview of "Meta Fiction." Spoilers for that and future episodes, as based on interviews. Warning for the co-mingling of sex and violent thoughts. Dean is pretty messed up in this story, and having some very unpleasant impulses.

The water coursed over him, so hot it was almost painful. Dean Winchester leaned into the rush of droplets, trying to wash away the dirt. But it was futile, and he knew it. 

Nothing could make him clean.

He’d taken to showering, over and over again, to scrubbing his skin compulsively, until it was raw. And still he felt dirty. _Filthy._ The filth was embedded beneath his skin somehow, encrusted within his flesh, seeping into his very bones, and all the scrubbing in the world couldn’t help.

He sighed, running a hand through his wet hair, and moved further into the stream of water. For some reason there was no shower curtain in this motel bathroom, but he didn’t really give a damn if he got the floor wet. The floor was tiled anyway. In fact, this was a pretty nice bathroom, as motel johns went. There were pictures of flowers hung here and there, and the walls were painted spring-green, the color of new growth, of renewal, of life.

A color that had nothing whatsoever to do with him.

Over the splashing water, he’d been vaguely aware of the sound of voices. On their search for Gadreel, they’d found Castiel, handcuffed to a chair and gagged with duct tape. Gadreel had gotten away, unfortunately, but they’d freed Cas and brought him back to their motel. Dean had driven the Impala, but he'd been all too aware of Cas and Sammy exchanging anxious looks in the car. He knew exactly what those looks had meant, just as clearly as if Cas and Sam had spoken their concerns aloud.

_Dean’s going off the deep end, angry all the time, obsessive, **dark.** I’m worried about him. There’s something very wrong… that mark on his arm…_

He'd come in here partly to get away from their worried faces and to let them talk, but partly because he wanted a shower. He _needed_ a shower. He found a washcloth of rough, cheap material, and began scrubbing himself fiercely. The distant sound of voices faded away, and he thought he heard a door close, but he didn’t worry about it. Maybe Cas and Sam had gone out for a beer or something.

It was better that way. He was glad to see Cas, glad they'd rescued Cas before Gadreel could hurt him, but God knew Dean wasn’t fit to be around an Angel of the Lord. Not now. Hell, he wasn’t good enough to breathe the same goddamned _air_ as Cas. 

Maybe he’d never been good enough, not really. After all, Castiel was holy, sacred, a Heavenly creature filled with light and grace, and he himself was just…

 _Filthy,_ he thought again, scrubbing harder, until the skin of his forearm was red and raw.

“Dean.”

The deep voice behind him startled him almost into crying out. He jerked, and the soap almost slid out of his grasp. Reflexes honed through decades of hunting and training allowed him to catch it before it escaped entirely. He put the slick bar on the side of the tub, and turned his head to glare.

Cas was standing at the door, looking at him. He was fully clothed, still wearing his suit and trenchcoat, and the fact that Dean was naked and dripping wet didn’t seem to faze him. Dean knew Cas had almost certainly seen him naked any number of times, had probably popped in many times to talk to him, discovered he was in the middle of a shower or getting dressed or jacking off to Casa Erotica, and popped out again to give him a couple of minutes. Angels had a different social structure from humans, and seemed to lack the desire for privacy, and so it somehow never occurred to Cas to materialize just outside and knock. But when Cas showed up at an awkward moment, he usually didn't just stand there and stare, because he'd learned it was considered rude among humans.

This time, though, Cas was showing no inclination to step back out and give Dean a few moments to get dressed. “Dean,” he said again. “We need to talk.”

“Dude,” Dean said, turning back to look at the wall, because looking into those straightforward blue eyes made him uncomfortable. “A little privacy?”

“Sam has gone out for a while,” Cas said. “We have privacy.”

Despite himself, Dean felt a hot blush run all the way down his body. His cheeks flushed, and then the rest of him did likewise. “I meant privacy from _you,_ ” he retorted. “Quit staring at my ass, will ya?”

“I was not staring at…” Cas’ voice trailed off, and Dean had the unsettling feeling that even if he hadn’t been staring before, he was now. He heaved a sigh.

“Gimme a couple minutes, okay?”

“No.” Cas sounded as stubborn and mulish as ever. Dean turned his head, stealing a glance over his shoulder, and was shocked to discover that Cas was now as naked as he was. He wasn’t sure if Cas had stripped off his clothes the ordinary human way, or just mojoed them away. Probably the latter, because he hadn’t heard any rustling noises. 

Cas moved toward him, and Dean swallowed hard, trying very hard to keep his gaze above the waist. He wasn't sure how well he was succeeding.

“Dude. What are you _doing?_ ”

Cas blinked at him, and responded as if the answer was obvious. Maybe it was.

“Joining you.”

Cas stepped into the tub, and Dean automatically stepped slightly aside to make room. His mind was whirling with confusion and shock and not a little lust. Cas took his right arm, wrapping his fingers gently around the wrist, and lifted it, studying Dean’s forearm.

“It’s the Mark of Cain,” Dean snapped in his angriest, most defensive tone.

“I know what it is, Dean.” Cas touched it with a forefinger, and a flare of pain slashed through Dean’s forearm like a knife. He yelped.

“Dude. What the fuck?”

“I am sorry.” Cas removed his finger from the Mark, but didn’t let go of Dean’s arm. “It is a thing of evil, Dean. It burns at the touch of an angel. But I do not have the power to remove it. I had hoped... but I cannot. I am sorry.”

“I don’t want it removed,” Dean muttered. “I need it to destroy Abaddon.”

“I know.” Cas’ voice was low and calming. “But in the process, it is destroying _you._ ”

Dean lifted his head and gazed into Cas’ eyes. It was… well, weird being this close to Cas when the two of them were naked, but there was a certain comfort in seeing the angel again. He’d been avoiding Cas, not calling him, not even praying to him, for fear that the wrongness inside him would corrupt the angel somehow.

 _I’m poison,_ he remembered grimly, and thought that it was even more true now than when he’d first said it to Sam. The Mark was drawing the poison in his soul to the surface, soiling him, sullying him. Destroying him, just like Cas had said.

Cas’ eyes were gentle, understanding, and words fell from Dean’s lips in a sudden desperate rush.

“I hate it,” he muttered. “I hate _me._ It makes me—it makes me think things I don’t want to think, Cas. I remember killing Magnus with the blade, I remember it _all the time,_ and I want—I want—"

“You want to kill again.” Cas’ voice was carefully nonjudgmental, but Dean couldn’t look into his eyes any more. His gaze faltered and fell away.

“I dream about killing,” he whispered. “I—I—" He couldn’t say _I jerk off to thoughts of killing,_ couldn’t confess the horrible lust for violence that overtook him far too often, the sick, twisted fantasies of brutal murder and shredded flesh and the fiercely compelling joy of killing. He couldn't admit to drinking himself into a stupor over and over again to get rid of the vivid mental images of blood and death, only to be haunted by them in his drunken dreams. He couldn't say any of it out loud, but he had a feeling he didn’t have to. Cas knew what stains were on his soul as no one else could. He shut his eyes, feeling the self-disgust welling up inside him. “I feel so dirty, Cas. So unclean.”

“It is the Mark. Not you.”

“No. You're wrong. It’s me. It _is._ ”

“I suppose that in a way, you are right.” Cas stepped a little closer. “The Mark magnifies all the darkness within you, forces you to delight in your own worst impulses. But the truth is that everyone possesses darkness, Dean. Ordinarily it is closed away, buried deep in the human soul. What the Mark has done to you is force it out into the open.”

“I have more darkness than most people, though. Cain said—he said we were alike. Kindred spirits.”

“With all that you have seen,” Cas said softly, “all you have done, it is only natural that you are in possession of more darkness than the average human. But there is brightness in your soul too, Dean Winchester. Never doubt it.”

“I can’t feel it.” Dean closed his eyes against stinging tears. “All I can feel is the dark.”

He pulled away from Cas’ hand and began scrubbing at his arm angrily, but Castiel reached out and took the washcloth from him.

“You will never eradicate the stain that way, Dean.”

“Well, how can I get rid of it?” Dean demanded. “I feel—I feel like garbage, Cas. The things I find myself thinking—I hate myself for them, but I can’t…”

He broke off with a half-sob and turned away, leaning his forehead against the tile wall. Cas’ hand settled on his shoulder, where once his handprint had been burned into Dean's flesh, and began caressing him gently.

“I understand,” he said, his voice so soft it was barely audible over the rushing water. “I feel the same way sometimes.”

“You?” Dean turned his head, blinking against the water. “You’re an _angel,_ Cas.”

“I am an angel,” Cas answered, “who murdered another angel for his grace. The light inside me is not mine, and it is beginning to—to turn. To curdle. It is going very wrong.”

Dean frowned, and concern for his friend began to seep through his own pain. “Are you okay, man?”

“For now, I am. It is much like the human affliction of cancer, I think. At first only a tiny part of me was affected, the way cancer only affects a single cell. But before long cancer cells begin to divide and multiply, and before long the whole organism is destroyed. So it is with grace going bad. The damage it has caused is small thus far, almost insignificant, but in the long run...”

“Shit. Are you saying your new grace is going to kill you, Cas?”

“I do not believe so.” Cas sounded less confident than Dean wanted him to. “I think that eventually, my body will reject it, and I will go back to being merely…”

“Human. Well, that’s not so bad.”

“It is that bad." Cas' voice was grim. "I have work to do as an angel, Dean. I have many followers now, and without me to help them, they may turn back to killing and fighting amongst themselves. I have to destroy or imprison Metatron, and find a way to open the Gates once again, or the angels and all the souls in the Void will wreak havoc upon the world. As much as I would like to be human again… I cannot. Not yet.”

“But you want to be human?”

“Yes.” Cas stroked his shoulder, very gently. “I do, Dean.”

Dean found that oddly reassuring. As much darkness as there was in a human soul, as much evil as humans were capable of, Cas would choose being human over being an angel. 

But right now, he was glad Cas wasn't merely human. He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the wall again, letting Cas caress him. The touch of an angel, he thought, had to be cleansing. Maybe Cas’ hands could take away some of the filth of the Mark, make him feel something closer to normal.

Cas touched him for long moments, caressing the tense muscles of his back, stroking from his stiff shoulders all the way down his spine, and stopping just short of his ass. Dean fought not to moan with need. His body, he realized, was reacting to Cas' touch, growing unmistakably hard, and he was half embarrassed and half grateful. He'd had a thing for Cas for a long time, of course, but he hadn’t gotten a hard-on that had to do with physical stimulation or sexual interest since he'd received the Mark. Even Busty Asian Babes and Casa Erotica left him cold these days. All he’d been able to get hard over lately was violent movies and his own dark fantasies of killing.

But he wasn’t thinking about violence now, just the wonderful sensation of Cas’ fingers skimming lightly over the wet skin of his back, leaving heat in their wake. Normal human lust bubbled inside him, and he let himself groan.

“Dean.” Cas’ voice was close to his ear, and he realized with a shock how near Cas was. He’d fantasized about this a million times—not lately, not when all he’d been able to think about was murder and mayhem, but over the years he’d dreamed of Cas this way so many times—yet he’d never expected Cas to actually touch him like this. Certainly not as an angel. Angels were above this sort of physicality. At least he’d always thought Cas was.

But he could hear the rough sound of Cas’ breathing, and he knew that the angel was just as turned on as he was.

He pushed away from the wall, just a bit, and discovered that Cas was hard and hot. Cas made a strangled gasping sound as Dean’s ass pressed up against his swollen cock. 

Dean rubbed against him, deliberately seductive, and Cas’ hands grabbed him by the shoulders and spun him around. Dean didn't object. He wasn't in the habit of letting people push him around, not even during sex, but... well, it was Cas. 

The water was still hot—whether the old motel had an improbably huge water heater or whether Cas was applying some angelic mojo, Dean couldn’t guess—and it sluiced over them like rain as Cas shoved his back up against the tiled wall and pressed their bodies together. Their cocks rubbed together, satiny and slick, and Dean groaned in earnest this time, low curse words rolling from his mouth. _Shit, Cas, I never thought... oh fuck…_

Cas made a funny, un-Caslike sound, a sort of _unnnpphhhh_ noise, and then his mouth was seeking Dean’s, open-mouthed and greedy and awkward. Their noses bumped together, but Dean tilted his head slightly to correct the angle and slotted their lips together properly. 

And then they were kissing one another, hot, frantic, hungry kisses that were neither angelic nor demonic, but simply… human.

Their hands ran over each other's bodies, their mouths clashed, and they rutted against each other in growing desperation, until Dean felt his balls growing tight with need. God, he could hardly believe how fast he'd gotten to this point. But maybe it wasn't all that surprising, not really. He’d waited for this for so long, waited for _Cas_ so long, and now—

Cas’ hips jerked, and Dean felt the rush of heat and moisture all over his own abdomen, heard Cas moaning into his mouth. It shoved him right over the edge, and he came in long, searing spasms, his climax both unbearably hot and impossibly sweet. He heard himself whimpering Cas’ name, the word muffled by the angel’s mouth, and he clung to the angel as if he was all there was left in the world.

Just as the pleasure was easing off, Castiel’s hand dug into his left shoulder, and something shot through Dean, something impossibly rapturous, fiery, _beautiful._ He cried out again, jerking helplessly in the throes of a second orgasm.

The intense ecstasy went on longer than any climax he'd ever experienced, and he sobbed into Cas' mouth, shuddering. At last it faded, and he fell back against the wall, weak, gasping for breath. 

“Fuck,” he muttered. “What was—Cas, how did you—what the _hell_ —"

“Hell,” Cas said softly, “was not involved.” He bent down and turned off the shower water. The air was steamy, but through the mist Dean could see Cas’ golden, muscled body gleaming with moisture. Cas stepped out of the shower, and Dean did likewise. He reached up to touch his shoulder, wincing slightly.

“Dude. That kinda hurts.”

“Look at yourself in the mirror, Dean.”

Curious, Dean stepped over to the small mirror. It was covered in steam, but he wiped it off with his hand and looked at himself. On his chest he saw the antipossession tattoo, and on his forearm he saw the Mark. And on his left shoulder…

He gaped at the handprint. It had been there when Cas had raised him from Hell, but a couple years later Cas had removed it. “You put it back,” he said.

“It was always there,” Cas said. “When a claim is made on a soul, it leaves an indelible mark. When I healed you after Lucifer beat you so badly, I removed the scar from your skin, because I thought you no longer needed the reminder. But it remained on your soul. It is a part of you, Dean.”

“I didn’t know,” Dean muttered. “I didn’t know it was still there.”

“I know, and that is why I brought it to the surface. Because the Mark is bringing up so much darkness from deep inside you… I think you should also have some of the good brought to the surface. Consider it a reminder that you are the Righteous Man, that Heaven found you worthy of resurrection.” Cas’ eyes met his in the blurry mirror. “And that you matter, Dean Winchester. Not just to Heaven… but to me.”

He walked across the bathroom, toward the door. Somewhere along the way, his clothes reappeared on his body. Fully clad, he opened the door and walked out, closing the door behind him. 

Dean didn't follow him right away. He stood there for long moments, staring at himself in the mirror. The Mark was still there, a symbol that looked like the angry raised scar a burn leaves behind. Castiel couldn't remove it. Maybe nothing ever could. Maybe he'd carry it until the day he died, or for all eternity. For all he knew it was burned into his soul indelibly, just like Cas' handprint, and he'd be marked with it even in Hell.

But maybe it didn't matter as much as he'd thought. Because even though he was scarred by the Mark, he also carried the mark of Heaven on his shoulder. The mark left by an angel. His angel.

The thought buoyed his sagging spirits, and he felt somewhat lighter, as if Castiel had cleansed him in a way the shower couldn't. And yet, Cas hadn’t really changed anything, had he? The handprint had been on his soul all the time. 

He thought about that. Maybe the Mark was making his worst impulses come to the surface—but it hadn't made him all bad, and his best impulses were still inside him, too. The good inside him was still capable of rising to the surface.

He lifted his chin a little. He could fight the Mark, damn it. He _would_ fight it. He had to use it to kill Abaddon, but he didn’t have to let it use _him._ He wasn’t going to give into his worst desires, or let the damn thing turn him into a killer. 

He touched the handprint once more, and remembered Cas’ words. _It was always there._

It would always be there. Because despite all the filth and foulness that the Mark had brought to the surface, despite all the wrongness that marred him deep down inside, despite the horrible impulses that plagued him… an angel, _his_ angel, had once placed a claim on his soul.

And nothing could ever change that.


End file.
